


Don't Know Much About History

by GetALLthePi



Series: But I Know That 1 and 1 is 2 [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Ultron kind of never happened, Also Avengers Assemble derived, Avengers: Infinity War, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/F, F/M, However in this Monica is the dame for him and shenanigans will ensue, I know Captain Marvel is on its way and I'ma head it off now, I will shove it down your throat, Infinity Stones, Infinity Wars as told by meeeee, Just spitballing here, Kamala/Wanda and Bucky/Tony eventually (kinda secondary?) i promise, M/M, My take on Avengers: Infinity War i guess, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Prologue is kinda like a post credits scene in my head idk ??, Sort of time travel ?, Sort of time travel..., What if we used Monica Rambeau instead of Carol Danvers? Haha lets go, minimal spoilers, okay yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetALLthePi/pseuds/GetALLthePi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> "I missed him."<br/>"What?"<br/>"I missed Cool Jazz, so I missed Miles Davis," Steve shifted forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "But I read somewhere that he said 'the most important note in a scale is space'. The well-placed absence of sound gives the rest of the music purpose, makes it sing." He hesitated.<br/>"Maybe it's stupid or trite to say it, but I always hoped life would sing like that, with just enough of a break to make it worthwhile to wait out the rest of the song. Does that... make sense?"<br/>"I understand." Taking her hand gently in his, she fixed him with a sad smile. "But for some of us..."<br/>He laughed, humorlessly. "But for some of us."<br/>"This moment..." she trailed off.<br/>He breathed in.<br/>He breathed out.<br/>"The space in the scale."</em>
</p><hr/><p>Following Civil War, Team Cap scatters. They lay low and connections somehow turn into <em> connections</em>. However, redemption comes to call wearing the face of a war that the Avengers, strained relations and all, have to fight. Dynamics shift and roles become clear as this war reveals itself to be one fought with mind and heart and soul. No. A piece of soul is literally the price of entry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When You're Miles and Miles

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm a sucker for the post-credit scenes that only a quarter of movie goers must see given how many leave before the initial titles?!  
> And after reading that we can expect Captain Marvel to show up before her solo movie -possibly in Infinity Wars- I fought off a plot bunny for a long, feverish night and then slapped this down by morning.
> 
> So... here's Monica Rambeau's Captain Marvel in all her glory as imagined by yours stupid truly. This is unbeta'd except for a few quick glances by friends, so if anyone wants to take a crack at it *shrugs*  
> Anyhow! Enjoy, Loves!

Wanda tucked her hands under her armpits and blew out a breath.

"Cold?" Sam shot her a small grin.

"No, just like home," she smiled. Sam shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat. You still don't seem dressed for November. Sure you don't want my jacket?" Wanda gave him a look.  
"Aight!" He laughed and held up his hands. "Just offering. Arizona can get feet worth of snow in the winter."

She raised a brow. "Russian. Still Russian, Sam." She took a quick glance around as they approached the pine green door of an unassuming suburban complex. "Sure this is it?" She asked skeptically.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm pretty sure she hasn't moved."

"Why do we have to be out here? Why could we not stay with Clint?"  
Sam rolled his neck, wincing at the loud pop his spine made.

"Wan, you know Steve wants us to lay low in the smallest groups we can manage. Barton has his family to worry about. And besides, we're safe here, she's about the best person I could imagine for this, and I know people. We'll be in beyond capable hands. Ready?"  
Wanda nodded tersely and Sam reached out to knock. He made it through one repetition before a loud crash came from the other side.

"JUST A SECOOOOOND." the other side of the door shouted. More crashes and muttered cursing followed.

Wanda gave Sam a look. "Capable?"

"Maybe she _has_ moved."

The door flew open and a mop of crazy corkscrew curls came flying out.  
"No, we already have a church parish, we don't want to buy any candles and we don't do business with solicitors thank you, if you're UPS there are instructions, leave it in front of the garage, sorry, and have a nice day!" A dark, graceful hand flailed wildly and the door started to slam close. Wide-eyed, Sam braced himself against it to stop it from closing.

"Whoa! Mo, hold on a sec!" There was a short pause, and then the head poked back out.  
"Sam? Sam Wilson?!"  
He twiddled his fingers in a hello.

"Hey, Mo."  
"What the HELL, what are you doing here, why do you never call me?!" She reached out and grabbed him by the front of the shirt. "Get your ass in here now! Oh, hello, you brought a friend, come in both y'all! Make yourselves at home, do you want anything?"

Boxes and painting supplies were strewn all over the hallway. "Watch your step, we're redecorating!" She called as she danced off towards the kitchen.

"We?" Wanda whispered through the corner of her mouth. Sam shook his head, dubious.

"Not since I can remember. Royal, maybe?"

"Didn't sound it. Could be a problem?" A bark sounded from the kitchen

"Maybe she means the dog." They stepped into the living room to be confronted by a towering hutch shifted perpendicular to the wall, draped in sheets to protect it from stray droplets of paint. The walls adjacent to it were in the process of being painted a soothing, cornflower blue. There were no ladders or wheeled moving dollies to be seen anywhere. Wanda eyed the hutch.

"The dog could not move that."

"No," Sam agreed. "You're right."

Mo, as Sam had called her, wandered into the room at that moment, carrying a tray stacked with four mugs and a kettle. She trailed a happy looking Alsatian wolf dog behind her.

“Neither of you said what you wanted so since I had just made some tea..” she made a face and gave them an effortless little shrug. “I could use the break _and_ the caffeine.” She laughed a moment. The German Shepherd padded over to Sam and laid its paw on his knee expectantly.

“Oh, this is Lincoln!” Mo finally acknowledged. “He’s just a fluffy sweetie.” Sam gave the pup’s ears a ruffle and Mo grinned.

“He’s my mostly companion, to borrow a turn of phrase. He’s blind in one eye, but he’s been so good with all the crazy mess. Especially since we just knocked in a wall-”

“We?” Wanda’s query jolted Mo out of her ramble. Sam shot Wanda a warning glance, but she just shrugged, unaffected.

“Someone you forgot to tell me about, Mo?” Sam interjected as smoothly as possible.

Mo’s eyes blew wide.

“Oh!” she then laughed. “Not in the way you’re fishing for, Sammy. Just my neighbor, Kamala. We’ve been doing a major overhaul of this place.”

“Your neighbor is helping do a major remodel of your living room.” Sam flatly asked.

“Yeah, well it’s hers too, dummy. This is a duplex, did you miss the second door?”

Sam blinked. He glanced over his shoulder towards the door. He stared at his lap for a second.

“I noticed?” Wanda offered.

Mo grinned. “Bless your heart,” she said before giving herself a little shake. “And what a host I am. We haven’t even been officially introduced yet!” Sam snapped out of his haze.

“Actually, that reminds me. Mo, we’re not just here for a social call.” Mo sat up straighter, her eyes a little sharper and her gaze more calculating.

“Tell me what you need, Sammy. What can I do?”

“We need a place to stay. To lay low for a while until a friend of ours gets into town and we can find a more permanent place.” Mo opened her mouth to consent, but Sam speedily talked over her. “No, you need to understand. We’re… in a bit of trouble-”

“Stop,” she held up a hand and fixed him with a hard look. “You know better than to tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into. You’re welcome to the couch as long as you need it.” She turned her gaze to Wanda, her lips quirking up a bit at the corners. “ _You_ can have the guest room.”

Sam threw up his hands. “You just _met_ her and you’re already playing favorites!”

Mo grinned at Wanda, who smiled in return.

“My name is Wanda Magnus. Thank you for your hospitality and for making Sam act like a small boy.”

Their host threw back her head of Medusa-like curls and laughed.

“It’s what I live for, sweetie.” She clasped hands with the pale woman and gave her brightest smile. Wanda could’ve sworn the newly painted walls lightened a shade with the force of it.

“And I’m Monica. Monica Rambeau.”


	2. By Far Than Any Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got this and the next one done faster than I expected I would. Here it is, I guess ?  
> Steve and Kamala are here now yesssss. Steve is really fun for me to write, I love being able to put so much earnestness into a character and not have it sound stupid coming out of their mouth.  
> Also. Humor. Steve is funny. Let him laaaaaugh.
> 
> I have some characterization issues with Kamala as I only read as many of her issues as I could get my hands on (not many) and I only have a crash course in her beautiful culture under my belt. Contrarily, Monica is the me of this story so forgive her Southern twang, I'm projecting, oops.  
> Hopefully I don't miss the mark too much on anyone.  
> Unbeta'd again, but I'm working on that...  
> Enjoy, Loves!

When he had come out of the ice it had been overwhelming. The noise of the place had been the same, he knows that logically now. But it had all seemed… amplified. Amplified and muddled like an already loud voice through a warped bullhorn **.**

After New York he had needed to go somewhere. To see if the whole world seemed that distorted and just… loud. He knew it made him sound like the old man he was supposed to be, but it had been too much. So, he packed a small duffle with clothes- they didn’t seem like they were really his to take, but they fit and he itched too much of near claustrophobia to stay and piece together his own wardrobe. He also threw in a handful of cash from the 70 years back pay he had found out he was due, and taken off.

He hadn’t taken much money with him, just enough to eat and sleep for a while. Instead, he took odd jobs wherever he stopped, searching out an experience, a connection. He hadn’t been disappointed. As much as had changed, people were still people.

He supposed it made sense. Life went on no matter how much of a shift occurred- neither 70 years of development nor the singular discovery of hostile extraterrestrial life would change that. He’d also found that there would always be quiet places, places where everything functioned just a little bit slower.

Steve glanced out the window at the busy shopping district traffic whizzing by, before quickly surveying the clamoring patrons of the bakery he sat in.

This wasn’t one of them.

The place was bustling with life, The Slice’s community outreach program bringing in all sorts to sit in the black and white checkered booths. The yellow pages -which Steve had been told he wasn’t allowed to tell people he used anymore because it was ‘uncool’- had boasted a ‘homey, retro feel’. He was pretty sure it was a retro he had missed by a few years as none of the decor resonated with him. It still felt homey, somehow. He thought it might’ve been the smell of fresh bread baking; it reminded him of summer afternoons spent at Bucky’s place, listening to Mrs. Barnes humming Rodgers and Hart tunes around their cramped kitchen.

The tomato red barstools by the display counter caught his eye as a regular, an older gentleman in a cardigan, got up to leave the bakery. As usual, two crisp 20s were left under his fork. Steve checked his watch. 12:50, like clockwork. There always seemed to be a routine in this place; he found the consistency comforting.

Checking his watch again, he sighed. So it was going to be this again. This was the sixth time this month Sam had ‘accidentally’ forgotten about a meeting Sam, himself had called. Steve knew it was on purpose, and even why he did it but always showed up anyways. He _liked_ this place. Besides the regular business, The Slice also utilized a ‘pay it forward’ business model. Patrons could come in and buy a sandwich or a pastry or even just a cup of coffee for someone who couldn’t afford it. He smiled at an exhausted mother corralling her two bundled up sons into a booth. It helped people get back on their feet. He was more than happy to continue to patronize a place like this. Sometimes he even came and helped out on weekends, often just to sit and talk to people. Once or twice he had played catch with a group of kids out back. It was a good place and he was happy to be a part of the community of it, even in a small way.

Steve checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. 1:01 and still no Sam. Of course. He turned to fish a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.

“Afternoon, Steve.” He glanced up in surprise. “Mind if I join you for a second? It’s my break,” Sam’s friend Monica smiled at him, tucking a bundle of wayward curls behind her ear. This was routine, too. Over the past few weeks he had gotten to spend a decent amount of time with her, as often as Sam ‘forgot’ to meet him here. She had a quality to her that Steve liked. Her embossed apron was the same as every other employee; a swatch of muted salmon that would’ve done any tomato bisque proud. Somehow she wore it with a certain flair that made her stand out, he thought. His ma probably would’ve called it poise. Tony would’ve called it moxie. Tony would’ve been making fun of Steve.

He studied the logo on the pocket for a moment, a fitting rendering of a loaf of bread, mid slice by a serrated knife. The perspective was… odd. He glanced up. Monica looked concerned. Oh. He hadn’t answered yet.

“Sorry, I forgot I have to talk out loud for people to know what I’m thinking,” he joked. It was a valid point, though. He needed practice having actual conversations with people outside of training with Wanda.

“Yes, please.” He gestured to the chair across from him, and she slid into it.

“Lost in thought? Happens to the best of us,” Monica promised. “Anything new for me, Rockwell?”

Steve grinned and pulled a small laminated sign about the dimensions of a business card from his jacket. ‘No smonking in da bed’ it read. Monica bit the inside of her cheek.

“No smonking. Of course.” She continued her valiant struggle to suppress a full body laugh for a few short moments. She turned the sign over in her hands a few times.

“Did you.. steal this from a hotel room?”

“I’ll have you know, I only borrowed it.” he insisted. “A year ago.” Monica raised an eyebrow at him.

“With no intention of returning it,” he admitted, somewhat bashfully. She laughed then, an unintentional little snort worming its way into the midst of her giggles.

“I think-” she attempted before falling back into a second fit of laughter. “I think… that the best part is that it is ‘ _da_ bed’. This has got to be the hippest bed in- where was this?”

“Chinatown in Los Angeles, I think..”

“The _hippest,_  Steve.” Monica chuckled a moment more before untying her apron to search her sweater pocket. “Okay, I’ve got one… aha!” she pulled out a receipt that she flipped over onto its back. The watermark print on the back that would usually read ‘thank you’ or a similar farewell message instead read ‘Have Day.’

“Have Day,” he read aloud. He paused a moment, trying to keep his composure. Glancing up at her, he locked eyes with her intense, amused gaze.

“Steve,” Monica insisted, “you need to Have Day.”

“No kind in particular? Just have day?”

“Just have day,” she practically cackled. He grinned lopsidedly back.

“I think I can do that.”

“Okay good, because-” she flipped the slip of paper over and pointed at a word in red text at the bottom of it. “Thank.”

He furrowed his brow in incredulity.

“There’s nothing else? Only-”

“Only ‘Thank’. One singular thank.” Steve rested his hand above his eyebrows as though shielding his eyes, taking a moment to laugh quietly.

“Well then,” he opened his eyes and leaned forward onto his elbows, beaming. “Welc.”

Monica snorted again, letting out several peals of bright laughter. She held up her hands, gesturing wildly at him.

“No, but here’s the thing- this isn’t even a translation. I got this at a 7/11 in Phoenix.”

The two of them laughed for a few moments before their amusement finally tapered off.

“Ah, well. Enough of that,” she swiped under her eye. “How are-”

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?” He winced. That had come out more aggressive than he had attended. “Did I say that _way_ too fast, was that awkward?” she stared at him for a second, her jaw loose.  
“Or a movie?” he suggested. “Or dinner. Any of the kind of things that would involve spending more time with you; anything you want to do, really.”  
Monica recovered quickly, giving him a gleaming smile.

“Okay, I hate in movies when people give misleading false negatives? So, I’m going to start with yes.”

He perked up, sitting a little straighter in his seat.

“But-”

“Oh, there’s a but..”

She laughed at his disappointed tone.  
“ _But_ , coffee is awkward because you run out of things to say, movies aren’t real dates because you don’t say _anything_ , and dinner is awful because I hate people watching me eat.”  
The laugh came out of him in a burst, almost surprising him.

“What would be the best format to woo you, then?”

“ _Woo?!_ ” she asked incredulously. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Date. Go out with. Whatever the hippest kids are saying these days.”

“Oh my god, you’re a little old man,” she cackled before straightening. “PSA, you’d have to spend 2 hours on a bus with me to Glendale, but I like hockey?” he blinked at her.

“Hockey. You?” He tilted his head forward, looking up through his eyelashes at her, a smirk lighting his face. “You, hockey?”

“Stop!” She dipped the bitten off nails of her paint-stained fingers in his water and flicked them at him, laughing. “Yes, me, hockey. I like hockey and I have two tickets to a Coyotes game. If you want to come I will dump Sam’s ass to drag you along instead.” He pretended to consider for a second.

“Oh, _that’s_ how it is,” she giggled at him.

“So, I hate in the movies when people give misleading false negatives-”

“Oh, shut up!”

* * *

 Kamala balanced the giant sunglasses on the tip of her nose. She stretched to catch boot that flew by her head. She glanced at it for a moment and then dodged the matching one as it flew past her shoulder and struck the door. She turned back to the mirror, making sultry faces.

“These are HUGE, they eat up my entire head, how do you wear these and see?”

The muffled voice wafted out of the closet, the place where the flying shoes had formerly been in residence.

“Uh… what are they?”

“Your sunglasses, these things are the size of dinner plates, how do you see out your peripherals?”

“They have mirrors, turn the bridge of the nose.” There was a long pause as the closet continued to rustle and Kamala considered the sunglasses. She turned the nosepiece. A snapping sound, and the sides of the glasses flipped open, revealing a set of extremely well-placed mirrors.

“What,” she breathed. “Are you… a secret agent.”

 

A pause.

“Sure, we’ll go with that. Hey, I’m wearing my jersey over whatever I pick, but I might take it off on the bus back. Do I have to stick to crimson and cream? The colors are already in my pants, can I wear my polkadot necktie blouse?”

“You mean the cool khaki pants with the red butt pockets?”

“You...yes. Those ones,” the closet confirmed.

Kamala tapped her chin for a second. Then she shrugged.

“I dunno probably. But the real question is whether you’re wearing these sunglasses with the ensemble, and the answer should be yes.”

 

The owner of the closet voice leaned past the doorframe and gave Kamala her fondest ‘are you dumb?’ look.

“Kamala,” Monica shoved her unruly hair out of her face for what must’ve been the umpteenth time that afternoon. “It’s the middle of December.”

Kamala returned the look.

“Yeah, it is. But these make an important fashion statement. They say ‘hey pal back off I am _too_ cool’. Everyone likes a little aloof.”

“That’s not-”

“And if you’re like, sitting in the stands and some buttface behind you is trashtalking your date’s mother you can super-spy deck the guy without even looking!”

“Kamala-”

“And if you get really bored on the bus you can juggle behind your back and he will love you forever.”

“... I can’t even juggle in front of my back. ..In front of my front. At all, I can’t juggle at all.”

Nodding sagely, Kamala took of the glasses and folded them gingerly.

“You should learn.”

 

Monica sighed heavily.

“I’m gonna go with the polka dots.” Standing up, joints crackling, she left the closet, pulling down her pajama shorts as she walked. She started gathering all the clothing and footwear scattered around the room.

“I’m glad he asked, or else I never would’ve gone through my closet.”

“And you’d never have made such a glorious mess,” Kamala grinned at her neighbor. Roommate? Best friend? “Oh happy day. What a glorious mess.” she sang.

Monica rolled her eyes for what _also_ must’ve been the umpteenth time that afternoon.

“It’s not a-” she glanced around. A cartoonish trombone ‘wa-wah’ filtered into her thoughts. “Okay, it’s a mess, but it’s a mess of stuff I’m giving away because I never wear it. Someone else can and _will_ use this, so I should give them the opp-”

Kamala bobbed her head and gestured grandly at Monica with the sunglasses, effectively cutting off a speech she’d heard countless times.

“ _You._ Are a bleeding heart, my friend.” Smiling at her friend she looked at her out of the corner of her eye as she turned to fetch the flying boots from earlier. “No wonder you put up with me.”

Monica snorted.

“Shut up, you know I love you.” Kamala glanced up, grinning.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re my best friend, dummy.” Kamala opened her mouth to respond when the doorbell rang. Kamala’s eyes narrowed at her suddenly panicked friend.

“ _I_ will get the door.  _You_ will go change now, and then you will have a fabulous date yelling at a bunch of angry, sweaty ice skater dudes. I will sort all this,” she gestured to the piles on the floor, “while you’re gone and then I’m going to watch The Nanny Diaries and also never move again.”

“Okay,” Monica whispered. Kamala shoved her friend.

  
“Go!” she laughed, dashing for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I love writing her to death but when it comes to Kamala, I really could use some help with characterization. *panicks quietly due to worries that I'm not culturally authoritative enough to do her justice*
> 
> If anyone with experience in Pakistani-American culture wants to come yell at me how to write her right, I would LOVE that and be forever in your debt. Seriously. Please do.  
> Thanks, Loves!


	3. Here's the Doorway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with another chapter and another obscure music reference for a chapter title! I've had a week and a half, but getting back to writing has been really cathartic.
> 
> Here's the next part of this. Everyone was so fun to bring to life in this one. My angel son Sam makes another appearance, y'all welcome.
> 
> Also, _MAN_ Steve is equal parts sassmaster, equal parts an anxious cutiepie. Seriously, someone hug him. Monica, get on that.
> 
> Enjoy, Loves!

“The seventh time, Sam,” he laughed swinging open the front door and wiping his feet on the mat. Pulling off his sweaty tee, he made a beeline for the kitchen.

“First of all,” Sam let himself in after Steve, resting against the kitchen island. He breathed in, heavily. “First of all we need to talk about the Pavlovian response I have developed to the phrase ‘on your left’ because that’s not cool, man. Second of all, I have a very selective memory.”

Steve snorted.

“Oh, _very_ selective. Y’know you should probably get that checked, I hear early-onset Alzheimer's can seriously affect people like you.”

Sam blinked.  
People like me?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, sagely, Turning, he handed his running partner a water bottle, a smirk on his face. “Slowpokes.”

Sam slapped the water bottle out of Steve’s grip.  
“Shut up man. Y’know people said you were supposed to be _nice_ or something!”

“Who said that? Or can’t you remember, you know, because of the selective memory thing?”

“ _Man_ , you are on a roll today. If the whole superhero thing doesn’t work out? Definitely consider insult comic. You’d be killer at a roast.”

Steve folded his arms.  
“You were trying to set me up with Monica.”  
  
  
Sam spluttered.

“I did _no_ such thing. I forgot. Plain and simple.” Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Seven times.”

“A man is only a man, Steve.”

“A man? I thought you were a ‘weird bird guy’.”

Sam launched himself upright off the counter.  
“Ey, the Daily Bugle is a piece of shit, you know this, I know this-”

Steve chuckled.  
“Weird Bird Guy.”

Sam deflated.  
“C’mon man, you know that ain’t right.”

“Sure, Sam. Can we get back to Monica?”

“I am _not_ a matchmaker, Steve.”

“Are too!” Steve pointed gravely at his teammate. “ _Seven times_ , Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes in response.  
“Well, you’re a grown-ass man, just tell her you’re not interes-”

“I asked her out on Monday.”

“You what now.”

Steve smiled, pointedly.

“Wait, wait wait. You asked her out. What did she say?” 

“Uh. Technically no to the things I suggested? But I guess we’re going to see a hockey game this evening.”

Sam threw back his head and cackled.  
  
“Oh man, are you in for it. She’s seriously scary at those. Coyotes?”

Glancing up to think, Steve nodded.  
“That sounds right.”

“You’re going to need to wear dark red and like, off-white? Or you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Hockey fans judge your entire personal character by your colors, man, and it’s a home game.”

“So no pressure then.” He nodded a third time. “Dark red, off-white. Got it.”

Sam hesitated.  
“You sure you up for this, Steve?”

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. He picked up his water bottle and finished it off, tossing the empty bottle into the bin under the sink marked ‘recycling’.

“I’ve been on dates before Sam, I think I can keep up.”

“No, no, of course. I just mean..” hesitating, Sam steeled himself for his next question. “You never told me what happened with Sharon, so I just. I wasn’t sure.”

  
Steve’s entire body shifted, assuming an almost wistful posture. He nodded.

“Sharon and I had a talk. Over the phone, which felt like a silly way to break off something that had barely started, but I hear some people today break up by texting which sounds worse?” He peered at Sam suspiciously as if trying to figure out of this were a joke someone had played on him. Nodding, Sam waited patiently.

“I think I realized that to an extent- and unintentionally- I saw her as a stand-in for Peggy. I know what a different woman she is, but her grace and her manner and.. I was treating Sharon the way I would’ve treated her. I noticed how often I said something and waited for Peggy’s response- and Sharon’s would be different. I was always disappointed, as if there were something fundamentally wrong with someone so similar being.. so different. And that’s not right. I couldn’t dissociate, and that wasn’t fair to Sharon, so,” he let out a long gust of air.

“I told her. I wanted Sharon to understand that I was in a place where it was unkind to her to try and make something of us, especially long distance and while we’re laying low. And she thanked me.”

Steve folded his arms and stared at his feet, flexing his toes. After a moment of silence, Sam prodded.  
“And.. that was it?”

Inclining his head slowly, Steve sighed.

“And that was it.”

“And now you’re going to a Coyotes game with Monica.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth lifted.

“And now I’m going to a Coyotes game with Monica. Dark red and.. off-white you said?”

Sam grinned.  
“Dark red and,” he enunciated, primly, “Off. White.”

  
Blinking as if it had just dawned on him, Steve furrowed his brow at Sam, intently.

“What the hell is off-white?”

 

* * *

From somewhere in the cramped, stiflingly silent apartment, the buzz of a phone rattled a tabletop. Wanda sighed. She glanced at the bedside clock. 6am. Figuring now was as good a time as any to get up, she slid her legs out from under the uncomfortable duvet. She hadn’t slept, again. Given the past week where she had given in and sought coffee at 3, 6am was ‘children’s play’.

The irritating rattle insistently droned on from the other room of her three room apartment. One bed, one bath, one kitchen/dining/living room cramped monstrosity of an amalgamation. She had talked Steve into letting her stay somewhere less expensive and spacious. Perhaps it was sad, but it felt more like home than any studio flat. The rattle cut off suddenly.

She cocked her head, waiting a moment.

It started back up afresh.

She sighed, for a possible hundredth time that morning and padded into the other room. Swiping the vibrating phone off the tiny dining table, she gave the caller ID a glance.

Unknown Caller, it told her.

Her thumb hovered over the reject button when the bright blue light of the screen shut down and fell silent for a long moment.

  
“Why,” she whispered, alarmed. The screen flashed back to life, rattling violently, nearly shaking itself out of her hand.

Unknown Caller, it insisted.

She stabbed at the reject button, hands shaking with the force of the vibration. The screen flashed again, and the phone answered itself. Wanda dropped it in shock.

“Wanda?” the voice on the other side of the call questioned, speakers crackling with static. “Wanda!  _Сестра, Вы меня слышите?_ ” The voice on the other end was thin, reedy, distant, but she could have picked it out of the din of a million voices.

“Pietro?!” she cried. “ _Заключается в том, что ваш голос я слышу?”_

“ _Да, это меня_.”

Wanda pressed a hand to her mouth, the skin of her face and palm going green-white at the pressure.  
“ _Невозможно…”_ she whispered, hoarsely.

“ _Послушайте_ , I do not have much time. You are soon to be issued a challenge. Your friends must be ready, Wanda. Tell your Captain that strength alone will not get him far.”

“My brother, you speak in riddles!” wisps of energy rose off of her like clouds of steam. A sharp fear took grip of her gut. “ Where _are_ you, how are you-” She brushed helplessly at her hair, throwing strands out of her face.

“Wanda? Wanda!” the line crackled at Pietro’s shout, sputtering for a moment, the words on the other side unintelligible. For a panicked fraction of a second, she scrabbled at the device, attempting to pull up the display.

The phone was dead.

“-must train,” Pietro’s voice focused back in. “You must train with him. We know much of doubting our own reality; we know how to find the single truth in a mountain of lies. Teach him.”

“What can he learn, what must he know?” she demanded setting herself as though preparing for an unseen attack.

“He must learn to see the threads of reality, time, and mind; to separate them from the tapestry they weave together,” Pietro stated, phrasing careful as though reading from a text. The static hissed violently for a moment. “-for me, Wanda. I must go, my time is up.”

“Pietro-!” she called.

“Be brave, my sister! _Я люблю тебя.”_ The line went dead.

“ _я люблю твоего брата,”_ she answered, too late. The phone in her hands began to emit a soft sizzle, its circuits fried. Still staring at the useless phone in her hand, she slumped to the floor, flopping down on the hardwood.

“ _Боже мой..”_

 

* * *

Steve glanced over his shoulder at the open street. There hadn’t been an answer at his first knock. Was this the wrong door; was it the other one? He had been here a handful of times before; back when Sam and Wanda had crashed at Monica’s place, and again when Wanda had lived out of her guest room for a while. He was positive it was the right one.

Shuffling for a moment, he jammed his hands in his pockets and stared up at the chilly, slate sky. He blew out a long breath, letting it puff his cheeks as he released it. He should wait, it was probably fine.

He took in another slow, measured breath.

Maybe they didn’t hear it? Should he knock again, could he knock again? Was that a thing that people did?

He looked back up at the sky. It might rain. Maybe snow. Staring at the door, he admired the subtle craftsmanship. He hadn’t thought to look at the door for long enough to notice the faint etchings of vines flowing along the grain of the door. Of course he hadn’t. Who studied doors as works of art?

“Doormakers,” Steve said aloud. Probably doormakers.

He shifted his weight to the other leg.

He sighed.

He was going to knock again.

He raised his fist to knock again. He was going to have to risk this being awk-

“Yo!” the door flew open. Steve halted, his fist paused an inch away from the top of an inquisitive head. Too late.

“Oh,” he said, intelligently. The girl sized him up.

“Oh hey, you must be Steve! I’m Kamala, Mon’s neighbor-mate.” She glanced up, going crosseyed as she studied his hand, still poised to knock. “Ah, the fatedly awkward second knock, huh? Happens to the best of us and totally my fault. Come in, she had a First World Guilt Crisis and is just now finishing dressing.”

“First World Guilt.. Crisis?”

“ _Oh_ yeah. She started going through her closet and couldn’t stop. There’s a literal truckload of stuff she wants to give away.”

Kamala stepped back from the door, waving him in.

“We have a friend who runs a clothes drive out of Phoenix. We make the trip pretty consistently; Mon gets a lot of donations through The Slice which is cool.”

“That’s really commendable of the both of you,” he noted.

Steve stepped into the airy foyer. He had been here before they had finished painting, and the dark oak and heavy browns that had previously dominated the well-lit entrance were gone. He gestured vaguely at the walls.

“It looks really nice in here, I saw it back before...”

Kamala nodded enthusiastically.  
“Oh yeah, that project was Monica’s baby for a while. The whole place looks great now, even if technically we weren’t supposed to? The landlord’s wife loves it anyway, so I guess better forgiveness than permission, sometimes.”

Half of Steve’s mouth quirked up, somewhat melancholically.  
“Y’know,” he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “I think you might have something there.” There was a bark and then the scrabble of paws on hardwood. Steve was met with a faceful of fur and 90 pounds worth of excited sniffling.

  
“Whoa,” he laughed.

“Sorry! Lincoln, _Down_!” a harried, but amused voice insisted from the other side of the wall-like canine. A hand grabbed at the excited dog’s collar, dragging him off of Steve.

“He missed you, apparently.” Monica patted Lincoln, now revealed to have been the Alice of the on the other side of the looking glass. Or dog. “You and Sam spoil him as infrequently as you visit. We’re going to have to have a talk about that, Rockwell.”

Steve winced, and not entirely in jest. He had forgotten about the alias.  
“Well, a smart dame just told me that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission?”

Kamala preened from her new post as guard-dog guarder.  
“Did you hear that, Mon? I am a ‘ _smart dame_ ’. Oh man, this is the best day of my life.”

Monica raised an eyebrow.

“Spoiling both my roommates now, are you?”  
Steve spread his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture.  
“Sorry, not sorry.”

Monica snorted. “I’d fight you for that, but I’m going to save my energy for the game.”

Straightening up, she gave him a bright smile.

“Speaking of, are you ready to go?” she asked, gingerly brushing dog hair from her jersey. “We have maybe-” she tapped at her wristband and gave it a quick glance. “10 minutes before we’re officially leaving late.”  
He ducked his head in apology.

“Sorry. Forgot we have a ways to walk.”

“Hey, hey!” she wagged a finger at him. “Don’t give me that kicked puppy look yet, this is why I factored in a margin for error. If we power-walk like a couple of pageant moms, we’ll even be early.”

“Pageant moms.” He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to suss out her meaning.

She shrugged sheepishly. “My cousins were in fashion contests, pageants, competitions like those. Those things are always running behind schedule. So, power-walking.”  
He nodded slowly.

“I could be a pageant mom.”

“Good,” she affirmed as gravely as possible.

“You guys are weird,” Kamala told them, from the staircase.

They glanced up at her, startled.

“Go be weird outside,” she drew her words out as though talking down to children in annoyance, but her grin betrayed her. “Shoo. Goodbye.”

Monica fixed her with a faux glare.  
Kamala returned it.  
“I will sell all your reject clothes to a Savers.”

“Leaving now.” Monica grabbed Steve by the arm and practically flew out the door.

As the door slammed shut, Kamala glanced down at Lincoln.  
Lincoln whined.  
“Hey, don’t be such a Negative Ned! I think that went pretty well.”  
  
Lincoln gazed up at her. His tail started to wag.

“Attaboy.” Glancing at the vacated doorway for a moment more, she sighed. “Alright, time to tackle this mountain of clothes,” she told him, or maybe no one in particular.  
He barked, excitedly, and ran down the stairs. He skidded to a stop in front of his dish and looked back at Kamala expectantly.

“You’re right, we should eat first. Good boy.”  
She smoothed down her blouse, and heaved another sigh.  
  
“Good boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, this was a long one. This chapter tried to be all about Steve so I had to break it up with Wanda in the middle there, and then she did _not_ want to have the lighthearted conversation with Sam I wanted her to when I made the phone ring.  
>  Thanks a lot, Pietro, jeeze.
> 
> Speaking of which, here's are the translations I intended (any Russian speakers want to come give me a hand or a lesson in Russian grammar? That would be amazing):
> 
> "Сестра, Вы меня слышите?": Sister, can you hear me?  
> "Заключается в том, что ваш голос я слышу?": Is that your voice I hear?/Is it really you?  
> "Да, это меня.": Yes, it's me.  
> "Невозможно…": Impossible...  
> "Послушайте,": Listen,  
> "Я люблю тебя.": I love you.  
> "я люблю твоего брата.": I love you, brother.  
> "Боже мой..": My god... (which is funny because this is how that first scene with Nat in Avengers ended aha ha haha *sighs* I'll see myself out.)
> 
> This was all pieced together by dictionary and some translators that seemed legit, but it's still no substitute for an actual knowledge of Russian so I apologize.
> 
> I'm also still working on Kamala's characterization but I think I'm on the right track... I checked out a handful of issues of Ms. Marvel from the library today and Kamala is so fun and beautiful. Even if my characterization is a little off, I'm so glad she's in this because I adore her personality.
> 
> I promise to be back soon with the next one, I just gotta... write it first. Oops.
> 
> Thanks, Loves!

**Author's Note:**

> So Lincoln is my (neighbor's) dog, by the way, and I will do whatever it takes, come hell or high water to write him into everything.
> 
> Speaking of which, I'm still writing and am only part-way through the second chapter so expect delays for now. Hopefully I'll get rolling a little more with the next couple as I do have a grand over-arching plan, but we'll see, I have a tendency to overthink... *fart noises of my brain processing*  
> As it stands I'll probably still make some edits as I'm going, but I just wanted to throw this out there to hopefully get a lil feedback before I dug myself any farther into a hole I can't climb.  
> Thanks, loves!


End file.
